


SUN IN YOUR EYES

by childstar



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: 1893 to be specific, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Age Difference, Angst, Arthur's Journal, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Eventual Smut, Finger Sucking, First Time Topping, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Porn With Plot, Pre-Canon, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut, Spit As Lube, Teasing, uhhh how do u tag things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-09-29 21:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17211260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childstar/pseuds/childstar
Summary: Arthur spends a little too long in the desert with Dutch and John. Even the most open of landscapes can get stiflingly insular; can make a man lose himself. Even a man of Arthur's restraint.





	1. THE WEIGHT OF THE AIR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This land we ride ain't so nice. Dutch says he knows a little Spanish and that the Spanish word for these lands is ~~mullpayiss~~. ^ It's malpais, you moron. In English we call it badlands. Dutch says these lands were once volcanoes. Easy to believe. Dutch says a lot of things. He also says our luck ain't ever running out. Sure don't feel as such with the law on our ass in this wretched sunburnt terrain. This place is probably what hell is like. Suppose I am getting a taste of it before I end up there for good._

‘Son, believe me when I say, we would much rather contend with nature and land, than man and law.’ Dutch’s voice boomed over the thundering of hooves. They rode hard for the badlands, lawmen on their tail.

‘I don’t know, Dutch, I—” Arthur began, at a yell.

‘Believe me. These people wealthy in their cruelty, and cruel in their wealth. But they don’t see the world like we do’. He tapped his temple. He had lost his hat in the earlier firefight. Even at a gallop, Arthur noticed the greys sprouting in Dutch’s sideburns.

Dutch continued. ‘They lack our… perspective. We’ve hardly harmed them. But they pay no mind. The law is in their hands, and they will bring it firm upon us unless we get _out_ of here. Discretely.’

‘Alright,’ Arthur puffed, the heat shortening his breath, ‘Amazes me as ever how much shit you can talk, ridin’ this hard!’

Dutch’s enormous laugh resounded off the canyon walls.

‘I aim to amaze, son. And I see you there worrying. Don’t. Our luck ain’t runnin’ short anytime soon, I assure you.’ he said.

John rode ahead, out of earshot. His horse easily outpaced even The Count, despite his trouble handling her.

He had only had her a few months. She was a Thoroughbred, a birthday gift from Dutch and Hosea. They threw his party on a chilly January evening. As instructed, Arthur had taken John on a hunting trip. They had returned to an empty camp, which concerned John, until everyone leapt from the trees with a cheer. Then he beamed, wider and brighter than Arthur had ever seen.

Dutch brought the huge horse from behind his tent and presented her to John with a flourish. She had a silk bow around her neck, and fear and fire in her eyes. They had even bought him a new saddle, complete with _JM_ engraved in the leather. John’s surprised exhale hung as mist in the frigid air. He pulled Dutch into a tight hug and drew Hosea in after. Arthur stood to the side.

 _John’s never so tactile,_ he thought.

Some time after the men had parted, Arthur clapped John on the shoulder and wished him a happy birthday, trying to hide the strain in his voice. Some kind of pain seared hot in his heart, something like jealousy. Despite the winter chill the party roared all night. At some ungodly hour, half drunk, Arthur scrawled a journal entry in the dim light of his lantern.

 

 

 

> _John turned twenty this month, although not even he knows exactly what day. Gang had him a nice party. Dutch and Hosea bought him a ~~toroughbred~~ ~~thorobred~~ thoroughbred. He named her Filly. Dumbest name I ever heard for the finest horse I ever seen. Happy for him, but something about it all hurts. Can’t place what. Maybe I wished it were me giving that gift, maybe I wish it were me getting it. Maybe I wanted to be touched like that. Don’t know who by. _
> 
> _I suppose I shall never begin to understand myself._
> 
> _HAPPY ~~BITH~~ BIRTHDAY JOHN. _

He had left the next page for a portrait, which he drew the following day. Tenderly he rendered the vision of John he held in his mind's eye. Now, as he rode hard towards lands he figured just as likely to kill him as the law, that night felt lifetimes ago.

 

***

The three men rode single file, north through the narrow canyons of the badlands. In such harsh terrain, they had lost the authorities. Just as Dutch had planned. The paths they rode were formed by rivers long dried up, so ancient and remote they had not yet been mapped. Yet Dutch remained certain the route would deliver them home, if they kept going north. The hostile vault of rock had preserved tracks of long dead beings from wind and other agents of destruction. Until now. Arthur rode ahead, neck-reining Boadicea and feeling along the canyon wall with his free hand. It was porous and harsh on his weathered fingers.

Characteristically, Dutch broke the silence.

‘Pity.’

‘Pity what?’ John’s voice came from the rear, bouncing off the ravine walls, rough as the scoria itself.

‘Pity that we’re stomping out all this, this history. Feels like a… desecration.’

Arthur hummed, noncommittal.

‘Look before you, son. You see all that? Those paths that look snake-made, those are from travois poles. You see the hoofprints? Likely shod in rawhide, back then. And the footprints, of these long dead men, notice they’re bare? They didn’t need no shoes like us today. Didn’t need comforts.’ said Dutch. ‘We ride on something sacred.’

'Ain’t we destroyin’ this somethin’ sacred, then?’ Arthur examined his fingers. They were browned. With dirt or antique blood, he could not discern.

‘We have no choice.’ Dutch said.

‘It don’t matter. Three of us are goin’ to hell anyway.’ said John.

 

***

The moment the canyon opened up enough, Dutch took the lead. He rode with his gold-plated compass in one hand, a lit cigar in the other, and his map open atop The Count’s withers. He guided his horse with just clicks of the tongue and touches of the heel.

 _Astounding, the faith those magnificent beasts place in one another,_ Arthur had once written of the two.

They heard a bird screech. John and Arthur looked up. All they caught was a flash of feathers in the vertical surge of blue stretched out overhead.

‘You reckon that's a bald eagle?’ said John.

‘It weren’t.’ Arthur replied.

‘How do you know?’

‘Well. Ain’t get them this far south this time of year. And were we to, they’re fond of the woods and the water. And wherever we are, we ain’t got any of that. Feathers and screech weren’t right neither.’

‘And how did you come to be the resident eagle expert?’ asked John. He sounded so petulant, so young. Arthur scoffed, but with a smile.

‘My daddy hunted them is how. For sport and for money. Respected the creatures, though. Eagles was one of the few things the bastard actually taught me anything about before he up and died.’

Silence hung in the air for an awkward stretch.

‘Talk in the newspapers of makin’ that illegal. Eagle huntin’, that is.’ said John.

‘Since when do you read at all, let alone the newspapers? Ain’t the letters too small for you?’ The grin Arthur flashed John was met with a sour expression. Stirring him up stirred something in Arthur, though he could never place what.

‘So this is modernity? This is civilization? Uncle Sam would have the act of writin’ laws itself outlawed.’ scoffed Dutch. ‘Just because the beasts symbolise this _great_ and _free_ and wretched nation, is the only reason why. Ridiculous. The more iconoclasm, the better.’

Neither John nor Arthur knew quite what that meant.

‘They’re such noble creatures, though. Powerful. Shouldn’t be killed senselessly, I reckon.’ John said.

Dutch hummed and shrugged and resumed navigating. Arthur raised his eyebrows.

John began again, after a while. ‘Still, what d’you know, Arthur? It coulda been a baby eagle, or a lady eagle, or–’

‘Listen, shit-for-brains. Why d’you refuse to–’ Arthur interrupted, raising his voice, his patience suddenly thinner.

‘ _Boys_. Don’t you get started again.’ Dutch growled, raising a clenched hand in frustration. ‘I am _trying_ to get us through these godforsaken lands with nothin’ but wits and a compass. But by all means, bicker away, if you’d like to rot here. I’m sure Hosea would come and bury you.’

‘Sorry, Dutch.’ Arthur mumbled.

‘Sorry, Dutch.’ echoed John.

 

***

They made camp in the early evening at a crossroads in the canyon, opting to gather their bearings before choosing a path the next day. John had gone to search for water. It was a sweltering hour, the day’s heat having collected in the sheltered ravine. The air was hot and immobile and heavy with it, bearing down. Arthur already ran warmer than most. He hated the heat, especially the still kind. Smoke got in his eyes as he strung up a large hare to roast. With a disgruntled huff, he shucked his clothes. He joined Dutch with the horses.

‘C’mere, Bo’, he murmured. Strong and sensible as she was, Boadicea was clearly also bothered by her conditions, and by Filly working up a fuss. Arthur brushed Bo down, cooing to her.

‘I say, Mister Morgan!’ chuckled Dutch, ‘Aren’t you just a vision.’ His dark eyes were trained on Arthur, a wry smile playing up in his crow’s feet.

‘Ah, come off it.’ Arthur replied, annoyed, but with the hint of affection that always coloured what he said to Dutch.

Dutch was picking The Count’s hooves. He’d rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt entirely. By his standards, he looked positively debauched. Arthur observed the sheen of his sweat, his strong forearms, the hair that trailed down from his chest to his belly, which was starting to fill out with age but diminished none from his power. Added to it, if anything, Arthur thought. His throat grew tight.

‘I mean, look at you. Naked as the day you were born, save your undergarments. And kerchief, and hat, _of course_. And—’ Dutch paused. ‘Why on God’s green Earth have you got your suspenders on?’

‘Cus I can’t have my boxers fallin’ down, can I. That would just be embarrassin’.’ said Arthur, dry as the land they rode.

'Did you hear that, Count?' Dutch stage whispered to his horse. 'I think our surly little son may have just made a joke!'

‘Can’t a man try to catch a breeze in peace? I’m hot, Dutch.’

‘Oh, I’m very aware.’ Dutch replied.

Arthur flushed and turned his head to Bo. He hacked and spat but it did not rid the lump in his throat. At some point Dutch left and Arthur finally felt he could breathe again. John returned with no news of water, but plenty of complaints about their dinner.

‘It’s food, shut up and eat it.’ Arthur bit.

'Don't you tell me to shut up.'

'I wouldn't have to if you just stopped yappin'.'

'That's quite enough of the attitudes, now, gentlemen. I have more than had my fill of it the last few days.' Dutch interjected, holding his hands up as though surrendering, but there was nothing passive in his tone. 'Thank you for cooking, Arthur.' he added, leveling John with a pointed look.

‘Yeah, thanks, Arthur.’ said John. 'And... sorry.'

'You're alright.'

They turned in early for they had ridden hard for days, in the heat and without sleep. It was too warm for tents, and they were too tired to pitch them, so they lay their bedrolls in the desert dirt. Dutch and John were out before sundown. Although exhausted, Arthur stayed up. It was the first chance he’d had to journal since they’d come south. In a double page he sketched the landscape they saw as they fled: the badlands surging from the horizon. With this he started a new chapter in his journal, and he wrote for some time.

 

 

 

> _Week ago now I came down south with Dutch and John in search of quick cash to get us through until the next big score Dutch and Hosea are scheming. Furthest South I’ve ever been. Practically in Mexico. Jobs have been small stuff, robbing stagecoaches and such of wealthy persons. Those who made their money exploiting innocent folks over the border, says Dutch. Nothing very risky, but scores kept going great so we kept at it, longer than planned. Although clearly we pushed it too far and got on a few too many rich folks’ nerves. Law drove us out yesterday. We have been on the run ever since. We've lost them for now in the canyons, but lawmen have a snake-like way of always turning up when your pants are down. I look forward to returning this money, and our selves, home safe._
> 
> _Noteworthy job was I held up a trafficker name of Alphonse Milliquent. Ridiculous name. Had to go him a while but he gave up his money eventually. Was my pleasure to beat him. He had a fat stuffed billfold, monogrammed with his initials. Our initials. Such a man don’t deserve such a fine thing so I took it for myself. Dutch says it’s nappa leather, whatever that means.  
>  _
> 
> _This land we ride ain’t so nice. Dutch says he knows a little Spanish and that the Spanish word for these lands is ~~mullpayiss~~. ^ It’s malpais, you moron. In English we call it badlands. Dutch says these lands were once volcanoes. Easy to believe. Dutch says a lot of things. He also says our luck ain’t ever running out. Sure don’t feel as such with the law on our ass in this wretched sunburnt terrain. This place is probably what hell is like. Suppose I am getting a taste of it before I end up there for good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter one is named after a line from [stone wall, stone fence by gregory & the hawk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDxUiPfDODY).


	2. THE LACK OF THE RAIN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s eyes adjusted to the moonlight. He saw the concern writ in John’s face; worry marks between his brows, his mouth turned down in a grimace. His youth cast the lines of fear in sharper relief. He looked so young and twice as anxious. Arthur was struck by it, his heart and shoulders aching with the weight of all of their worry.

The following day was no cooler. By mid-afternoon they had made it out of the malpais and onto wide, windy flatlands. The gust whipped the dust into alien, ominous forms; it ripped clusters of desert willow naked for its strength. The three men tilted their hats against the gale. It settled dust thick on their tongues like molasses. The wind burnt his skin just as much as the sun but Arthur savoured it, supplicant, relieved from the heat.

John broke file and trotted Filly alongside Arthur. He loomed across the space between their horses, grabbing Arthur’s saddle by the horn. Arthur leaned away from him.

‘Whaddaya want?’

‘I’m fixing to run out of water. Are you?’ John asked, low, in Arthur’s ear. His breath tickled, a miniscule breeze.

‘… I dunno.’

‘Why are you so stubborn?’ John scoffed. ‘You must be. So’s Dutch, I bet.’

Arthur lit a cigarette, cupping the match from the wind, a tender gesture. He watched Dutch riding ahead. He could read the tension in the slope of his shoulders. That form struck Arthur’s nerves, like a dark mass of thunderclouds on the horizon, heralding a storm.

‘If we don’t hit water soon we’re headed straight for the deadhouse.’ John continued.

‘Sure, maybe.’

‘Sure, maybe, Morgan.’ John mocked, frustrated. ‘Yeah, alright, all good. Who cares if we all die o’ thirst? Not you, I guess.’

‘Course I care.’ Arthur sighed. ‘Just tryin’ to not kick up a fuss. We still got a bit left, and we all been looking whole time we been riding and we ain’t seen nothin’—'

‘Exactly!’

‘—So, I see no point in worryin’. It won’t get us nowhere. We just gotta keep ridin’ till we find some.’

‘I sure see a point in worrying.’

‘John, just…’ Arthur rolled his cigarette between his fingers. ‘Keep your head. And don’t you say nothin’ to Dutch about this, you hear?’

‘Why not?’

‘Just don’t. It ain’t worth it. Just take my word for it.’

John did not take his word for it.

‘Dutch!’ he yelled. Dutch turned in the saddle. Arthur grimaced.

‘Yes, son?’

‘You know we’re all runnin’ outta water, right?

Dutch was quiet. Arthur watched him, watched his shoulders creep up to his ears, watched his jaw set square, watched his knuckles whiten with his grip on the reins.

‘I… am… aware.’ Dutch said, each word drawn out, enunciated a little too well.

‘We could be in real trouble.’

‘That we could.’

‘So, we better find some soon, Dutch.’

 Dutch halted the Count and turned him towards the other two.

‘John, son. I love you. You know I love you,’ Dutch sighed, folding his hands on his saddle with flair, ‘but you can be such a fool.’

_Here we go_ , thought Arthur _. Here comes the theatrics._

‘I’m just sayin, we better—’

‘We better. We _better_ , you say?’ Dutch spat. ‘Well, tell that to this land. This _land_ ,’ he gestured grandly with an upturned palm, his forefinger carving out the line of the horizon, ‘does not care what we desire. It is wild, it is _providence._ And as much as we all wish it were so, you sure as _hellfire_ will not conjure us an oasis just by _complaining._ ’ As he spoke his voice rose and cracked, a storm surge, building and breaking.

‘But nonetheless, John, perhaps there is a philosophy to be found _somewhere_ within your _whining_. That man can make what he wills of land. He can find whatever he seeks in nature, once she _deigns_ to grant it to him. As the late Thoreau once said: “there is a subtle magnetism in nature, which will direct us aright”. But this is one of mankind’s greatest debates, a debate I do not have time nor patience to have with you. So let us go, onwards, towards our fate. Be it water or _death,’_ Dutch clenched his open palm in a sudden and startling gesture, ‘remains to be seen.’

He sighed, settling his hands on his reins. The fury in his face faded.  

‘Now, shall we, gentlemen?’ he asked.

The three men sat in perfect stillness and silence. They could have been an oil painting, were it not for the wind whipping at the manes of the horses and John. He and Dutch stared each other down in fiery defiance. Arthur looked from one man to the other. Their standoff broke with the click of Dutch’s tongue as he urged The Count on north. Filly and Bo followed.

They rode for a long time in quiet. At some point, Arthur urged Bo up alongside Filly, leaning across the space between them. The thoroughbred spooked a little, but Arthur held firm on John’s saddle, strong enough to keep her close. John did not waver at the intrusion to his space. His gaze travelled, from Arthur’s hand, up the length of his brawny arm, to his pale eyes. Arthur felt the urge to pull away again, but he fought it.

‘Can I help you, Morgan?’ John said.

‘You’re a damned idiot, John Marston. What the hell did you expect? I told you to keep your mouth shut. One day, you’ll realise all the times you ought’a have listened to me.’ Arthur said, shaking his head.

‘Yeah, sure,’ John sneered.

‘Just… whatever you do, don’t go hollerin’ to Dutch that we’re lost.’ Arthur hissed, right in John’s ear. ‘He’ll wring your neck. And if he by the grace of God don’t, then I will myself.’

John swallowed, shrinking a little as he mulled Arthur’s words over.

‘Yes… sir.’ he said.

The word stirred something in Arthur, something that compelled him to give John’s thigh a squeeze and flash him a smile.

‘That’s a good boy.’

John was disarmed for a moment, brows raised.

‘Don’t you call me that!’ he barked at Arthur’s retreating form. Arthur rode ahead with a smirk on his face and an odd feeling in his gut.

***

In the evening they made camp in the shade of a mesa that rose sudden in their sight, lonesome and strange in the bare expanse. Its shadow was cast long by the low-sitting sun. Arthur lit a fire and John warmed some canned salmon for dinner. They sat and ate in silence. John tended to Filly. Arthur stood by Dutch’s side at the fire, studying the roughhewn horizon of the malpais they had come from.

‘I apologise for my earlier… outburst.’ Dutch sighed. He slouched, arms crossed, looking half the size of the man he was.

‘Hey, you’re alright. We’re all on edge.’ Arthur said.

‘I just wish to get us out of this hellscape and back home, Arthur. Alive and well. To our family. To my Hosea.’ Dutch’s voice wavered as he spoke. Not the usual boom and break, but a feeble sound. He spoke quietly, privately, for Arthur’s ears only.

‘Yeah. Me too, Dutch.’

‘We will find water and we will get home, Arthur. As we wish it, so it shall be. Where we go in this world, that’s something we have control over.’ Dutch assured, more to himself than anyone else.

‘Sure. We will, Dutch. Have faith. And hey, uh, least the law’s off our ass. Your plan worked.’ Tentatively, Arthur rubbed Dutch’s shoulder, soothing a forming knot with his thumb. Dutch looked at him, his eyes tender, leaning into Arthur’s touch. It wound Arthur’s chest so tight it hurt.

Suddenly, Dutch’s face lit up. He stepped away from Arthur, breaking their contact. Arthur’s hand hung in the empty air. He left it there, furling his fingers.

‘Boys! I have a plan.’ He grinned. ‘John, come here! Now!’

‘What is it?’

‘You boys think you can find a way up this here big rock, see if you can spy anything on the horizon?’

Arthur eyed the mesa and rubbed his chin.

‘I dunno, Dutch. I ain’t a mountain goat.’

‘You’re the biggest beast here, at least. Quickly now, _get up there!_ ’ said Dutch.

He gave John and Arthur both a shove.

‘Alright then. Race ya, old man!’ said John, taking off for the mesa.

‘You little shit,’ Arthur growled, sprinting after him.

John scrambled up nimbly, catlike, beating Arthur up the cliff with ease. Arthur followed, hauling his heft up the mesa. They ascended and crossed to the northern edge. John surveyed the horizon through his binoculars.  

‘Weren’t a chance in hell you were draggin’ yourself up this rock before me, ya big oaf,’ John taunted.

Arthur was glad to hear the smile in his voice.

‘Ah, shut up. Hurry up and find something useful or gimme a look.’ he said, swatting at John’s arm.

‘Quit it. Gimme a second. Okay, okay, y’see that?’ John pointed and passed Arthur his binoculars. Arthur peered through them. The setting sun bathed the land in amber light. Usually a bare and hostile swathe, it was an unbroken sea of gold at sundown. Arthur spied what John had seen. A fence snaked through the plains like a long, sutured wound. It wasn’t water, but it was the closest hope they had to it all day.

‘Boys! What do you see?’ Dutch bellowed from below.

‘No water, but there’s a fence!’

‘Where?’

John consulted his compass. ‘Northeast of here.’

‘Well, ain’t that something! Well done, gentlemen. We ride out that way tomorrow morning. For now, get back down here and let’s all get us some rest.’

***

Triumphant yet exhausted, the men went to sleep, or tried to. The evening was painfully hot again, the air still and thick in the mesa’s shade. The men were painfully thirsty, but too scared to drink. Through the night, John had wriggled his bedroll closer to Arthur’s. Close enough to whisper.

‘Arthur,’ he whispered. His breath washed over Arthur’s face. It smelt awful.

Arthur replied with the deep, long breaths of a man false asleep.  

‘I know you ain’t sleepin’, Arthur. You snore like a stuck hog.’

Arthur cracked open an eye and gave John a mean look.

‘Not for lack of trying.’

‘Usually sounds like you give it a right good American try.’

‘I meant sleepin’, you dunce. What are you botherin’ me for?’ he growled.

Arthur’s eyes adjusted to the moonlight. He saw the concern writ in John’s face; worry marks between his brows, his mouth turned down in a grimace. His youth cast the lines of fear in sharper relief. He looked so young, and twice as anxious. Arthur was struck by it, his heart and shoulders aching with the weight of all of their worry.

‘Oh. Oh, John. What’s wrong?’ Arthur soothed, as though calming Bo. He could settle her down easily, but people, he felt less confident with.

‘I’m… I’m… a little….’

‘A little scared?’

John nodded.

‘About what?’

‘I don’t…’ John sighed, ‘I don’t wanna die out here. I don’t wanna go slowly and painfully in the desert. Ain’t nobody would find my body. I wanna die a proper death, whatever that is. I wanna be buried. I don’t want no vultures pickin’ at my bones. Don’t want that for Dutch neither. Or you.’

‘There’s worse ways to go.’ Arthur said. John grimaced. ‘Okay, sorry.’

‘I… it’s a scary thought, Arthur. And it really could happen.’

‘Well, look… we’ll be fine… son.’ it felt odd to call John that, but he found it comforting when Dutch did, so he tried it.

‘How can you know? Dutch is right. We can’t just _say_ it and have it come true.’

‘Dutch was talkin’ nonsense, you heard it. You know how he gets sometimes, when he’s that stressed, all beside himself.’

‘Yeah,’ sighed John, ‘haven’t seen him like that in a long while, not since Hosea nearly died, that one time. Don’t like seein’ him like that.’

‘Me neither.’ Arthur whispered. ‘But you and I both know Dutch and we know if any man can just say things and have ‘em come true, it’s him, alright?’

‘I dunno, Arthur.’ John wrung his fingers by his chin. Arthur clasped John’s hands, easily covering them with his own.

‘Listen to me, boy. I’m promisin’ you, we will be fine. If we ain’t, I’ll eat my hat. Which I may have to anyway, if we ain’t. But no matter that, cos’ we will be.’

‘How do you know? How can you just say that?’

‘Because I’m promisin’ you, and I am a man of my word.’ Arthur hoped the false confidence in his voice convinced John. Both men went quiet and rolled on to their backs. In the clear black night, the stars scrolled on their axis overhead. The men lay quietly awake, watching the sky and sometimes watching each other. All the while, Arthur kept the fingers of one hand tangled with John’s.

***

When they pretended to wake it was late morning. They ate cold beans for breakfast, afraid of burning their tongues. The high pressure bore down, the last push before the snap, making it horribly, unbearably hot. The sun pulsed hard on them as they rode, slowly and in single file, as the horses willed. The men and horses alike grew stubborn and exhausted with thirst. Even the bright and wild Filly was subdued. Arthur worried for Bo, feeling the heave of her chest against his legs as she struggled.

Dutch, open shirt whipping in the wind, led file up a hill. He reached the peak. He waited. Then he laughed, thunderously, outstretching his arms as though being crucified. John and Arthur reached his side and sat the horses in disbelieving silence. Arthur swore for a second what he saw was a mirage.

Below and ahead of them spread a creek, trimmed with reeds. Somewhere in the distance stood a tiny farmhouse, but they paid no mind to that. There were no animals around save the men and their horses, but there was water. For the first time in days, there was water. Arthur grinned. With the last of their collective energy, the men put the horses to a gallop, racing to the brook. John and Filly won with ease. The water splashed up around them, clearing the dust on their horses in patches, rendering them false pintos. On the bank they dismounted, letting the horses drink, and kicked off their boots and jeans. They waded in wearing only their hats, shirts, and underwear. They knelt and drank the creek water from their hands, with all the look and reverence of men at prayer. In their elation, none of them noticed the dark swell of thunderclouds on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally im updating this yeehaw! this chapter is pretentiously named after a lyric in [the drought by horse feathers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q3BlxKR7FK8). thanks for reading yall! (ive written a few more chapters so hopefully ill have more updates to this sooner)


	3. THE COLD CAN'T KILL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a young man, Arthur feared lightning and thunder. Spooked like the wild young colt he was, Dutch had once held him through a storm. He told him not to be frightened, for a storm washed away man’s sins, and the blood on his hands, and so he was born anew. Now, decades later, Arthur turned his face to the welcome rain with a smile.

The storm hit within hours of them reaching the creek. First came a sudden drop in temperature, the mist of the greying sky. Lightning danced in the clouds. Thunder rumbled, distant, carrying across the open land.

As a young man, Arthur feared lightning and thunder. Spooked like the wild young colt he was, Dutch had once held him through a storm. He told him not to be frightened, for a storm washed away man’s sins, and the blood on his hands, and so he was born anew. Now, decades later, Arthur turned his face to the welcome rain with a smile.

By afternoon the thunderclouds had blocked out the sun, cutting the day short. The rain swelled and approached rapidly. Canteens and bellies full, the men packed their camp in a hurry and made for the cabin on the horizon, leaving their horses by the creek. Upon approach, they saw it was small and dilapidated, more a shack than a house.

‘Abandoned, by the looks of it.’ said Arthur. He readied his shotgun nonetheless.

‘That’s my boy. We can never be too careful.’ Dutch drew his twin Schofields. ‘One of you, go on ahead. I’ve got your back.’

‘I got it,’ John said, voice and stance low.

Drawing his revolver from his hip, he crept up to the door and opened it. It screeched as though in pain. They all froze. The wind howled. John stood, pressed the door open fully, and was tackled to the ground by someone within. They yelled, crazed, swinging at John. Arthur saw the glint of a knife.

 ‘Shit! Marston!’ Arthur yelled, starting for the doorway.

There was a crack, the smell of gunsmoke, a guttural gurgling sound. Dutch had put a single bullet clean through the throat of the man. He now lay atop John, carotid artery spraying deep red blood, soaking him to the bone.

‘Damn nice shot, Dutch!’ Arthur said.

He looked into Dutch’s dark eyes for a second, saw the reflection of his own thrill. Dutch gave him that sly, wry smile. It gripped and twisted Arthur’s gut. A good fight always set his nerves alight, his heart thrumming, adrenaline surging through him. Especially alongside Dutch.

‘Expect no less. Now, John, son, are you hurt? Do you need a hand?’ Dutch said, crouched at John’s side.

‘Nah, I got it,’ John huffed, hauling the huge form of his attacker off. With a kick, he rolled the body over. The men examined him. Dutch clicked his tongue.

‘He’s a Skinner Brother, alright.’  

Arthur heard a creak and looked up. The front door had been closed somehow, certainly not by the wind. Dutch cocked his revolvers. John drew his repeater from his back.

‘Appears we have us some residents. Let’s clean this place up, gentlemen.’ Dutch whispered, low and honeyed. Arthur’s heart pounded with anticipation, with reverence, with many things he could not name or know.

‘Arthur, you know how to make an entrance.’

‘That I do.’

Arthur kicked the door in with a shout. He felt it slam against something. He ran in, found a Skinner scrambling to get up, and sunk a spray of pellets in him. He clicked his tongue. He hated to shoot a man in such an undignified position. He felt someone at his back, supposing Dutch by the breadth of the shoulders, shoulders that jolted him as Dutch fired. With his back covered, Arthur scanned the room.

The shack was spare. A chair lay broken under the body of the Skinner Arthur had killed. A fair sized bed was pushed up against a wall by a bureau and a fireplace. Opposite this stood a door, which Dutch made for, brushing a hand on Arthur’s waist as he went. His touch lingered a while, seared into Arthur like a brand.

Dutch stilled, hearing something Arthur couldn’t make out. He turned and shushed the men with a silent gesture. The loading of a shotgun sounded faintly from behind the door. Dutch and John shared a look. They both nodded. John backed up to the main threshold, crouched and readied. Dutch pressed himself against the bedroom wall, his revolver raised, his jaw set. Arthur stood beside Dutch and watched, shotgun aimed, breathing heavy, the air around him crackling.  

‘Come on out, you bastard!’ John taunted.

All in an instant, a man kicked open the bedroom door with a roar, firing a pump-action at John, who dove out of the doorway to dodge, as Dutch pressed his glinting Schofield against the Skinner’s temple. Then, everyone froze.

‘It would serve you well to calm down, now, _sir._ ’ Dutch said coolly.

The Skinner laughed, a loud and crude sound. ‘You really think you’re gunna reason with me? D’you know who I run with?’

‘Oh, I am well aware,’ said Dutch so, ‘and I know you madmen are beyond reason. So I will make this real simple. I know you’re trying to survive, in your own way—’

‘Got a real mouth on him, don’t he?’ the Skinner quipped, meeting Arthur’s gaze. He sneered, his teeth rotten, half falling from his mouth. Arthur studied his dirtied face, twisted with hate and a little fear.

‘I suggest you not interrupt me.’ Dutch boomed, loud but measured. He gave Arthur a look, one Arthur knew well. Swiftly and adeptly, Arthur stepped towards the Skinner and disarmed him. The Skinner put up some fight, but Arthur was far bigger and stronger. With a growl, he threw the man’s gun across the ground.

‘Especially now.’ Dutch added. ‘Now, As I was sayin’, I know you’re just tryin’ to survive, son. So let me help you do just that.’ Dutch placed a broad hand on the Skinner’s shoulder and pressed the gun firmer to his head.

‘Why ain’t you just killed me? What you motherfuckers want from me?’ the Skinner snarled.

‘First, I want to know your name.’

‘I ain’t tellin’ you shit.’

Dutch sighed. He looked up at Arthur from beneath his lashes and nodded. Arthur surged forward, gripping the man by the collar, and clocked him hard in the jaw. He cried out and spat.

 _On the ground,_ Arthur noted. _The ones with real grit will spit in your face. He’ll crack soon enough._

‘Alright, alright! Cole, My name’s Cole!’

‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance, _Cole._ Now, secondly, any more of your brothers around these parts?’

‘I dunno.’

Dutch nodded and Arthur hit the man again. He yelped and spat, blood this time.

‘Wrong answer. Try again.’ said Dutch.

‘I ain’t tellin!’

Dutch sighed, a large and affected sound. ‘Don’t you wanna live, you fool?’

‘Don’t just _wanna._ I _will_.’

‘That so?’ Dutch drawled.

Arthur grew impatient. Dutch loved to draw these things out, torturously so.

‘Listen, buddy,’ Arthur growled, ‘my partner here’s a patient man, but me, I ain’t so much. But tonight, I’m feelin’ a little generous. I’ll give you ten seconds to tell us what we wanna know. Otherwise, I’d be honoured to blow your brains out myself. Splatter the walls with ya.’ He shoved his shotgun under Cole’s jaw and cocked it, staring him down, pale eyes blazing. Cole swallowed against the barrel. Arthur began his countdown. At three, Cole cried out.

‘Okay, okay,okay! Please! I swear there ain’t no more of us about, we come wanderin’ from our camp, just – just for some ransackin’, but – but there ain’t no more of us in these parts, I swear!’

‘Atta boy,’ Dutch cooed, and pulled the trigger.

***

As the scene settled, so too did the rain outside, so too did Arthur. Breathing heavy, nerves still surging with adrenaline, his world increased in scope, zoomed out. He dropped the man who had just died in his hands. He looked around the room. Eight bodies occupied the cramped space. Three live, five dead. Dutch had begun to move the least bloodied from the shack. John cleared his throat, startling Arthur. Arthur had forgotten he was even there. He had taken point at the front door while the whole affair unfolded. He leaned against the frame, repeater still in his hands, scanning the room.

‘Damn,’ he said.

‘Damn indeed.’

Dutch re-entered the shack, rubbing his hands. His wet curls clung to his neck. The rain had cleared the blood splattered on his face in small circles. He gripped Arthur’s shoulders, setting him alight again for a second.

‘My my, Mr. Morgan, what a display! You, son, really know how to put on a show.’ he boomed, chuckling. ‘Never thought I’d find your defiance so…’ he trailed off, looking down, then straight in Arthur’s eyes when he settled on the word.

‘Captivating.’

Arthur swallowed. He felt all the blood in his body rush to his face and his cock. It took all remaining willpower to keep his expression neutral, to say the simplest of words.

‘Thanks, Dutch.’

John and Arthur began clearing out the bodies. John was still soaked in blood. It had started to dry, browning and cracking on his skin, congealing in his hair. No amount of death could stop the stench from turning Arthur’s stomach.

‘You reckon Dutch really woulda spared him?’

 _God, you’re naïve,_ Arthur thought.

‘Course not,’ he said.

John was quiet for a moment.

‘Good thing he didn’t. World’s a better place with one less Skinner in it. What them boys do is nasty, nasty business.’

Arthur grunted in agreement.

They returned to the house, where Dutch stood, bedroll under his arm. He had already changed into his union suit, which clung tight to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Arthur tried not to stare, fearing staring would undo him, still on edge as he was.

‘Good work, boys. I’m calling it a night. You sort yourselves out in here.’ Dutch said as he went into the other room.

The rain picked up again to a sideways sleet, thunder roaring in the dark sky. The air crackled, it set Arthur’s hair on end. He watched Dutch go, a similar storm forming within him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a bit of a short one, but smut is coming next chapter i promise xoxo 
> 
> also, title is from [the cold by together pangea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKjXwqPn8tY)


	4. THE TASTE OF TONGUES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s gaze turned to the map. Arthur swallowed. His cheeks flushed deep. Dutch did not have to see the shame in Arthur’s face to know it was there; he could read him with his eyes closed. Arthur lit a cigarette, the crack of the match cacophonous in the silence that hung between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (here comes the smut)

Lightning flashed, lighting up the shack through cracks in the cladding. Thunder rumbled, immediate and deafening, rattling the walls.

_Must be strikin’ damn near on top of us,_ thought Arthur. He went to the door.

‘John! Get in here and outta that storm.’ he yelled over the roar of the rain. John stumbled into the shack.

‘Christ, Arthur, was just cleanin’ myself up. Weren’t even out there a second.’

‘You had to do that right now?’

‘You want me to stay drenched in another man’s blood?’

‘Preferable to bein’ out in the middle of that.’

‘Relax,’ drawled John, ‘I weren’t gonna get struck.’

‘You’re right. If there is a God, he wouldn’t bother to smite the likes of you.’

John stood in the doorway. Lit only by lamplight, his clothes were soaked through, clinging to him, making him look smaller. Feebler. His wet white muslin shirt hid little. Arthur averted his gaze.

‘You look like a goddamn drowned rat. Smell like one, too.’ said Arthur.

‘Says you.’ John said. He sniffed, pointedly.

‘Yeah, well. Us both in this dingy little room for the night, was bound to get pretty musky anyway.’ Arthur said. John looked at him. Heat rose in Arthur’s cheeks.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Don’t mean nothin. You cold?’ Arthur deflected.

‘Nah.’

‘Liar. I hear your teeth chattering from here. Get those clothes off.’

John raised his eyebrows. Arthur flushed deeper. He hated his pallor for giving him away, for revealing all he tried to hide.

‘You’re all wet and bloody, I mean.’

‘Well—’ John began, but Arthur interrupted him by throwing a bundle of clothes to his slim chest.

‘These are clean. We can’t have you dyin’ of hypothermia in summer, poetic as it’d be. Dutch would be awful sad.’

Across the room, John shed his wet clothes. There was no shame in his movements, unlike the way Arthur watched him. John’s body was distinct from what Arthur saw in the mirror. John was a skinny little kid when they had first met and all these years later he remained slight, small in the shoulders and hips. Sometime recently, Arthur wondered when, that narrow frame had grown some power. Filled in a little. His muscles were toned and wound tight, shifting beneath his skin as he moved. Arthur’s shirt hung low from John’s frame. He’d left the top buttons undone. Arthur had not realised how transfixed he was until John cleared his throat and spoke.

‘Feel like a little kid again, in this. You’re a big feller.’

Shrewd, John watched Arthur’s eyes, watched them dart around the room.  

‘Yeah, well, uh, old Dutch and Hosea ain’t hardly giants. Even you’re taller than ‘em now. They need somebody big ‘n scary, I guess. Who can throw their weight around. Big ol’ me, I’m good for that, ‘n not for much else, really.’ Arthur rambled, to fill the thrumming air between them.

‘Sure,’ replied John.

John went quiet. He had the look of a man with much to say, but few words. Arthur itched for a cigarette, rolling the ghost of one between his fingers.

‘You know, I’ve seen you lookin’, Arthur. Staring.’

Arthur’s eyes flickered from John to the window. He longed to be back on those open plains, free of these crushing walls, free to run away into that stormy horizon, never to be seen again.

‘Uh, ah, well, ain’t you full of yourself.’ Arthur managed.

‘You’re doing it right now.’

‘I ain’t doin’ nothin’.’

‘Well then you were doin’ it.’

‘I ain’t never did nothin’.’

John scoffed. ‘Ah, quit it. Dutch and Hosea may’ve raised us but they made bad liars of us both.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

‘You know it and I know it.’

‘You accusin’ me of bein’ an honest man?’

‘Come off it, Arthur.’

They stared at one another for a while. Their gaze gave way suddenly and forcefully, like a still forest going up in wildfire, as John surged forward and kissed Arthur.

Arthur pulled back with an exhale, eyes wide. John leaned over him, stared him down, gaze alight and hungry. Like Arthur was something small, something meek, but unpredictable; a hare to a wolf. John’s breath sent lantern-lit dust motes swirling in the air between them, where time and expectation were suspended, frozen.

_Fuck it,_ thought Arthur.

With a growl he grabbed John by the shirtfront and pulled him down into his lap, lips colliding again, clattering teeth, swallowing the surprised sound John made.

_Maybe you ain’t so cocksure._

There was no tenderness to the kiss; neither man was much of a romantic. John kissed clumsy and rough, teeth bruising Arthur’s lips and tongue parting them, hands clawed in his hair. Arthur ran his hands under John’s shirt, his own shirt, feeling the muscles tense beneath his fingers. He tweaked John’s nipple, eliciting a sharp inhale.

‘Son of a bitch,’ John growled. Arthur’s cock twinged at this, eager.

‘Don’t you talk to me like that, boy.’ Arthur scolded, a blatant lie.

He pinched John again, harder, rolling his fingers; a familiar gesture.

‘Don’t call me that.’ John hissed, through gritted teeth.

In a swift and sudden movement, John shoved Arthur back on the bed and pinned his hands. Arthur felt all the blood in his body rush straight to his cock, leaving him giddy.

‘The disrespect of you,’ he murmured into John’s mouth.

John’s kisses turned bites and wandered down Arthur’s neck.

‘You still fancy yourself in charge?’ John said.

Arthur felt his smug smile against his throat. He broke free of John’s grip, bringing one hand to his throat and tangling the other in his hair. John froze.

‘Sure do.’ Arthur grinned.

For a flash he worried he’d overstepped. The moan John softened through bit lips suggested otherwise. Arthur held a little tighter.

‘Fuck you,’ John said, breathy and heady, and drove his hips down against Arthur with force.

Arthur bit back a gasp and choked John tighter. He bucked against him, grabbing at his bare, wiry thigh. John leaned forward, head against Arthur’s shoulder, breath washing hot over his clavicle. In a clumsy hurry, John fumbled with the buttons of Arthur’s union suit. Arthur swatted his hands away and undid them himself.  

John pulled Arthur closer to him by the hips, prompting a surprised exhale. He grabbed Arthur’s cock firm through the fabric, rubbing at him, teasing. Before Arthur could suppress his own gasp, John’s fingers were in his mouth, doing it for him.

‘That’s a good boy,’ John teased.

Arthur fixed him with a mean look and bit him, hard, as though to say, _don’t call me that. Don’t disrespect me._

John winced, then chuckled. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

Arthur spat out John’s fingers. ‘Rat, more like.’

‘Clever, ain’t you?’

Ever impetuous, John didn’t even bother undoing Arthur’s union suit all the way before he grabbed his cock with his spit-slicked hand. Arthur stifled a gasp with his palm, his other hand stroking John at a slow, teasing pace. John was firm, dextrous, but hasty. Not the best Arthur ever had, but far from the worst. He was all Arthur’d had except himself for some months. Despite his efforts to draw it out, to savour the touch and the warmth, Arthur drifted close, his breath keening in his throat. A cough drew him from his reverie. He looked up at John.

 ‘Hey, Arthur? You wanna, uh…’ John trailed off, with a vague gesture, one Arthur understood.

‘Yeah. I do.’

John swallowed and nodded. His eyes darted, suddenly uncertain.

_Bet he ain’t never been with a man before,_ Arthur thought. _Not like this, at least._

‘Hey, now. Let’s do this how you wanna.’ he said. He placed his broad, warm palm on John’s chest.

‘Okay. I’d like to, uh… do… you.’

‘I’ll get myself ready, then.’ Arthur said. John looked at him, owlish, curious, already palming himself.

_Definitely never been with a man before,_ Arthur thought.

Arthur sucked on his own fingers, smiling around them when he heard John moan. Eyes fluttering closed, he set about preparing. Gentle at first, careful not to take himself too far. When he opened his eyes, he saw John watching him intently, cock in hand, breathing heady and heavy.

‘Look at you. I ain’t even touching you.’ Arthur chuckled.

‘Fuck you,’ John mumbled.

‘I’m waitin’ on you to.’

John pulled his cock free and braced a hand on Arthur’s hips. He pushed into Arthur with a guttural sound, an exhale of ecstasy, shifting his hips into position. Arthur hummed, John filling him, pleasurable and a little painful.

‘Shit, this feels--‘ John began, but lost the words.

He was still for a while, eyes closed, chin tipped, as through at silent prayer. He held Arthur’s thighs in a vicelike grip. Arthur sat up on his elbows, watching, anticipation thrumming in his throat. Then, sharply and swiftly, as all John’s movements were, he snapped his hips, rolling them at a desperate stutter. Stifling a whine, Arthur pulled him forward by the shirt and grabbed his ass, guiding his motion to a rhythm. He bit at John’s throat, teeth scratching against stubble. John moaned, loud and deep.

‘Quiet now, Dutch’ll hear us,’ Arthur growled, low, in John’s ear.

‘Oh, fuck, shit, I—’ John blabbered.

‘Ah, fuck it. Too late now.’

John hummed, high in his throat, a strained sound.  

John was rough, a little too quick too soon, but Arthur would be damned if it didn’t feel good. He closed his eyes, head rolled back, John’s moans and whispers of ‘fuck, Arthur, fuck’ sounding distant. A sudden touch drew him back, back to the humid little room, the creaky bed. Having found a pace, John grabbed Arthur’s cock and started jacking him off in rhythm.

‘I want – us to – together,’ he explained, eyes darting.

‘Oh,’ Arthur exhaled, disarmed, ‘that’s… sweet.’

‘Shut up,’ John huffed.

_I mean it,_ Arthur thought, but stayed quiet.

The speed and desperation with which John moved increased. Arthur gauged he was getting close. He twisted a hand in John’s wet tangles, rolling his hips, breathing heavy on his clavicle.

‘Fuck, John, I’m—’ Arthur keened, arching his spine and releasing in John’s hand, over his own bare belly. With a deep, guttural sound, John followed suit, pulling from Arthur and coming in the same place. They sat in stillness, chests heaving. Arthur lay back on the bed, John hunched over him, both spent.

‘Eugh,’ Arthur grunted, ‘got a real mess made ‘a me.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t know where to—’

‘You’re fine. Just lemme clean up.’

‘I can—'

‘I got it.’

‘Alright.’

Arthur pushed John off him and grabbed a rag from his pack. Outside, he held the cloth out in the sleet until it was damp, then wiped their intermingling from his gut. He stood a while on the porch, surveying what little he could see of the landscape in the storm. Wind whistled through cracks in the shack walls. Lightning lit up the low-hanging clouds, the crash of thunder trailing after. Arthur savoured the cold air on his skin, the raindrops that lashed even through the shelter of the porch, stinging like pinpricks. Despite the cool, his skin burned hot. With a sigh, he ran rain-wet hands through his hair and re-entered the shack. The door slammed against something on his way in.

‘Hey, watch it!’ John barked. He was crouched down, across the room from the bed, laying out his bedroll.

‘Sorry,’ said Arthur, ‘what’re you doin’ down there?’

‘Going to sleep.’

‘You don’t, ah, wanna take the bed?’

‘Nah, you take it. You gotta rest those achin’ bones, old man.’ John quipped.

Arthur hummed, too placid to retort. He could hear the chatter of John’s teeth, could see the shudder in his shoulders. If Arthur ran warm, John ran twice as cold.

‘You’re still freezin’, John.’

‘Nah, I ain’t.’

‘Yeah, y’are. Come here, I got enough meat on my bones for the two of us.’

‘Yeah, and you got enough meat that there ain’t enough space,’ John said, but was already walking towards the cot. His bedroll lay half done, abandoned on the floor.

‘There is for your skinny ass.’ Arthur said, fighting the softness in his tone.

He had unfurled his bedroll to use as makeshift covers. He opened them for John, who climbed in and lay on his side. Arthur felt the chill of his skin at their points of contact, but it was a pleasant sensation, and it meant John felt his warmth.

Arthur suddenly wasn’t sure what to do with himself, with his body or his hands or his mind. Sat up in bed, he smoked a cigarette in pensive silence. Occasionally John reached over for a puff. Arthur studied their hands, his built big and broad and sturdy, John’s long and thin and graceful. Much like themselves.

By Arthur’s third cigarette, John was dead asleep, long hair splayed out everywhere. Tenderly and gingerly, Arthur pushed the tangles from his face. John rolled over with a grunt and threw his arm around Arthur’s waist, a deadweight that Arthur froze under, suddenly feeling trapped. He relaxed when he heard John snore.

John’s breath fanned over the slick drool pooled on Arthur’s skin, alternating cool and warm with each exhalation. Arthur was equal parts disgusted and endeared. He watched John’s face. In the lingering afterglow, he considered sketching him. John resembled a corpse in the sickly yellow lantern light, distinguished only by the rise and fall of his narrow chest. So Arthur wrote instead.

> _Tonight me and John did something. Something I never knew I wanted and sure as never thought he would want with me. But I suppose least some part of us both did. I suspect for him I was just a present and willing body. He usually don’t go this long without a woman. Things happen when young men get pent up, sure did to me at that age. Had me plenty of evenings I don’t recall with people I don’t recall neither. Strange ones. I do not wish to be a strange man to John. Although now, I am uncertain what I do wish to be to him. _
> 
> _He’s very young and doubly foolish. And I am coming on thirty. Over half done with my life, I bet. I don’t care to live as long as Hosea and ain’t careful enough to neither. It seems no matter how old I get or how hard I try, that which I try to control thwarts me. Perhaps tonight were one of those times. Look at yourself, Arthur. You can grow a fine beard, sure, but you have grown no sense._
> 
> _Something about it all troubles me. Can’t place what. But it ain’t that John is not a woman. I been raised to never judge nobody for that, least of all myself. Men get the job done just as well with none of the risk. I cannot bear another Eliza and Isaac on my conscience. May their souls rest peaceful and safe from this cruel world. And from me._

***

The following morning Arthur awoke at sunrise. Particles danced in the rays that beamed through the shattered windows. John lay still asleep beside Arthur, an arm tossed over his waist. Arthur rose, careful not to wake him. He walked outside, yawning, stretching, blinking bleary-eyed into the morning sun. He found Dutch leaning against the fence of the front porch, fully and impeccably dressed, tin mug in one hand and map in the other.

‘What’re you doin’ out here? Not like you to be up so early.’ Arthur said.  

‘Good morning to you too, Arthur.’

Arthur chuckled. ‘G’morning, Dutch. You sleep alright?’

Dutch sipped his coffee, eyeing Arthur over the rim of the cup.

‘Scarcely a wink. Last night was quite… loud.’

Dutch’s gaze turned to the map. Arthur swallowed. His cheeks flushed deep. Dutch did not have to see the shame in Arthur’s face to know it was there; he could read him with his eyes closed. Arthur lit a cigarette, the crack of the match cacophonous in the silence that hung between them.

‘Ah, yeah, hell of a storm, that was.’ he said.

Standing in the threshold, Arthur looked out across the land. The storm had passed, clouds retreating to the horizon. The creek wound through the plains, rushing faster and fuller. A lone tree stood black and stark against the pale dirt, branches gnarled, lashed with lightning scars and still smouldering, a demonic image of a desert willow. Dutch spat his coffee grounds in the dirt, dark and viscous.

‘Hell of a storm indeed.’ he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, there it was. thanks for reading!
> 
> this chapter name is from a lovely song called [hair to the ferris wheel by lady lamb](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ykEFYbjiKM)


	5. BUZZARDS IN THE GUAVA TREES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of their ride was in silence, Arthur leading file. He felt John’s gaze on his back, burning a hole right though his heart. He gripped the reins tight and listened to the beat of hooves on sand, the clink of tack, his own breathing. The day would be over soon.

The men packed their things and readied the horses and did this all in silence. The day was just as quiet, very still, blissfully mild. The sky stretched pale blue and close to cloudless above them. They rode out along the creek, following its path as it wound through the hills, scoring out the land. As they rode north-east it picked up, flowing faster, hissing louder. Arthur watched it bubble, turning over pebbles, grinding them along its depths. He saw himself reflected in the water’s moving surface. The storm had ebbed. The calm came and then retreated. He now felt its aftermath, the tumbling of his mind, rushing faster and faster.

Dutch led file. The Count trotted along the bank, his gait prim and proper, picking his hooves as though trying to avoid muddying them. John followed, letting Filly trail after at a walk, hands off the reins. He was rolling a cigarette. Arthur watched him.

‘You ain’t much of a smoker,’ Arthur commented.

‘It’s for Dutch.’ John replied.

Arthur grit his teeth, jaw set. Dutch always asked him to roll his cigarettes. Arthur took pride in his handiwork, in the clap of Dutch’s palm on his shoulder, in the hearty _thank you, son. You’re quite good with your hands._

‘You’re doin’ a real sloppy job of that one, here, let me—’

‘I can do it.’

‘You’re packin’ it wrong—’

‘Dutch asked me to do it.’ John said, short and sharp and final.

Arthur held his tongue. He slowed Bo, falling in file a ways behind Filly. He pulled a cigarette packet from his satchel. He smoked only store-bought; any he rolled were for Dutch. He cracked a match behind his teeth and lit his cigarette.

Across the river a tree stood gnarled and dead. A flock of vultures crowded it, cawing and scuffling, squabbling with ravens over some mangled carrion. As the men rode past the birds quietened, watching them, eyes beady and hungry. Arthur met their gaze though the haze of smoke surrounding him. He memorised the image for a later sketch: the vultures, hackles raised, like some foul feathered foliage.

 ‘Nice to be back on a map.’ Said John.

‘We’re damned lucky we found any sign of man at all.’ Arthur huffed.

‘I said we would, did I not? Have a little faith.’ said Dutch.

‘Where we headed, Dutch?’ said John.

‘A town northeast of here, quaintly named Paradiso.’

‘How far?’

‘About a day’s ride. We ought to arrive by tomorrow noon.’

‘This damned desert never ends,’ Arthur grumbled, ‘swear it was half the size when we were comin’ down here.’

‘It will end soon enough, dear boy.’ Said Dutch.

‘Christ,’ Arthur huffed, ‘how in hell did we even end up this far south?’

‘You recall our friend the steam engine, Mr. Morgan? Quite a marvellous modern contraption, where—'

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m well acquainted.’ interrupted Arthur. Dutch tipped his chin, gave him a stern yet fond look.

‘We couldn’t have got one back? A train, I mean.’ John

‘We can’t exactly tame a wild one and ride it home, can we? Besides, I thought you gentlemen would enjoy the scenic route.’

‘Desert ain’t so nice. I’d kill a man to see a little grass. I’d kill another to get this damned dust out my eyes.’ Arthur sneered.

‘At least we’re on a path, now.’ John offered.

‘Yet another wonder of civilisation.’

‘At least we found water?’

‘Don’t make this any less unbearable.’

‘Oh, do be quiet, Arthur. _You’re_ unbearable. I sincerely hope, by this time tomorrow, you’ve a beer in your mouth just so we don’t have to hear any more of your damned grumbling.’ Dutch sighed, but there was a warmth to it, like the afternoon sun on Arthur’s skin.

‘Me too, Dutch.’ chimed John.

‘Same here.’ said Arthur.

Their chatter continued. Dutch recounted stories of their youth and triumphs and misadventures, voice booming, gestures grand. John chuckled along, telling tales of his own, relieved and merry. Arthur laughed less than usual. Dutch examined him, took in the weary slump of his shoulders, the low tip of his hat over his eyes. He counted the cigarettes, one after the other.

‘You lead now, John, just keep following the creek.’ said Dutch.

He stood The Count and folded his hands on the horn. Arthur stopped Bo. The horses stood close, nuzzling one another. Arthur leaned back in the saddle and eyed Dutch from below the brim of his hat.

‘What’re you waitin’ for?’ said Arthur.

‘Hey now, son. I hate to see you so sour. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Arthur lied, averting his gaze, ‘I’m just tired, is all.’

‘How odd,’ Dutch needled, ‘you seemed quite spritely this morning.’

‘The, uh, sun really takes it outta me.’

Dutch hummed, thoughtful. He reached out and gripped Arthur’s thigh. Arthur looked up, muscles tense against Dutch’s grasp.

‘Chin up now, my dear boy. We can’t have you so glum.’

Dutch shot Arthur a rehearsed smile. Arthur returned it feebly, feeling equally as weak in the knees.

‘Yeah.’

Dutch gave Arthur’s thigh a squeeze and clicked his tongue, urging The Count on ahead. Bo followed suit. Arthur sat a little straighter, kept his hands on the reins and his eyes on Dutch’s broad back ahead of him. The vultures circled overhead.

***

'You boys gettin’ hungry?’ Dutch boomed.

‘I sure am,’ replied John, ‘but couldn’t eat another can o’ beans, though. Not if you put a gun to my head.’

‘I could.’ said Arthur.

‘Of course you could. You’d eat the can too. I am with John, though. Before it gets too dark, why don’t you boys go find us something fresh for dinner?’ said Dutch.

‘I can, uh, I can go alone.’ Arthur said.

‘Nah, let’s do it together.’ insisted John.

‘Good, grand. Meet me back here, I’ll get a fire going.’

John and Arthur rode out a little east, across the creek and past the grizzled tree, towards the circling vultures. Arthur yearned for a cigarette but did not reach for one. He chewed the inside of his cheek instead.

‘Dunno what Dutch thinks we’ll find out here.’ said John.

‘Fistful of sand might taste alright with some herbs and a little gravy.’

John laughed, a harsh and barking sound.

‘You’re a funny one, Arthur Morgan.’ he said.

Arthur set his eyes on the land ahead. He heard a smile in John’s voice that he did not want to see, but he could not rid his mind of its image. That grin, wide and wry and lopsided, John’s dark eyes crinkled at the corners.

John sighed.

‘So, last night—’ he began.

‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’ interrupted Arthur.

‘Why not?’

‘I just don’t. There ain’t no point.’

‘Why not?’

‘Quit askin’ me that!’

‘I will if you stop clammin’ up. Are you ashamed?’

‘No, that ain’t it.’

‘Then why won’t you talk about it?’

‘I just—’ Arthur huffed, frustrated, holding his hands up in plea. ‘There ain’t nothin’ to talk about. You’re young, you’re a fool, you’ll understand it all one day.’

‘I may be young but I ain’t a fool.’

‘Sure.’

‘Sounds to me like you don’t even understand it yourself. Maybe you’re the fool.’

‘Maybe I am. I don’t know, I— Marston, I said I don’t wanna talk about it.’

‘I still don’t see why not.’

‘Just drop it. Let’s just shoot somethin’ and head back. Leave me be. Please.’ Arthur pleaded.

John stared at Arthur, a frown on his lips and concern writ into his brow.

‘Alright.’

Arthur swallowed. He met John’s gaze, just for a second.

‘Thank you.’

They rode for a while without hearing a sound from any living creature. The sun began its slow descent over the bare, undulating hills. As the moon faded early into view, the men came upon ravens gathered around the corpse of a white-tailed fawn.

Arthur dismounted, grabbed his varmint rifle, and gestured for John to follow suit. He lay down in the dust, aiming his gun atop a rock. The ravens hopped around the carrion, pecking and pulling at the deer’s guts at morbid play. Arthur inhaled. He held three fingers up to John. He dropped one, then the next, then the third, and on his exhale, he shot a raven. John hit another in tandem, right in the eye.

 _Damn good shot,_ Arthur thought, but did not say.

As the flock took flight the men managed another two. They fell from the sky, whirling through their descent, landing in the sand with a dry thump.   

Arthur stood and strode to the carcasses, quickly gathering them and tethering them to the horses. John stood and watched, mouth a little open, words hanging on the tip of his tongue. Words Arthur did not wish to hear. He mounted up. John closed his mouth with a click of his teeth and followed suit. They rode back to the creek, Arthur keeping Bo at a gentle canter, long-legged Filly matching her pace with ease.

‘I know you don’t wanna talk about it—’ began John.

‘Why are you bringin’ it up, then?’ Arthur huffed.

‘Can I just say—’

‘Marston.’

‘—it felt real good. I mean, I had a good time. Thanks for, uh… yeah, thank you.’

‘You’re… welcome.’ Arthur said through grit teeth, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘Let’s just get back, now. Quietly.’

The rest of their ride was in silence, Arthur leading file. He felt John’s gaze on his back, burning a hole right though his heart. He gripped the reins tight and listened to the beat of hooves on sand, the clink of tack, his own breathing. The day would be over soon.

They crossed the creek, reaching Dutch. He had pitched his tent, got a roaring fire going, and had rolled a few nearby boulders to the fire as makeshift seats.

‘Welcome back, gentlemen.’ He grinned, arms thrown wide in welcome, ‘what did you find us for dinner?’

‘Shot a few ravens.’ said John.

‘Interesting,’ said Dutch, large nose crinkling a little.

‘Dunno what you expected we’d find out there, Dutch.’ said Arthur.

Dutch raised his hands, palms open. ‘Fair enough. Let’s get these birds cooking, then, boys. I have heard raven tastes a lot like chicken.’

‘Really?’ said John.

‘We’ll see soon, won’t we?’

They plucked and skinned and cooked the ravens. They tasted as expected but a little more gamey, a little dry. Arthur was glad to have something to occupy their hands and mouths. Dutch set his tin cutlery down before he spoke, never one for poor table manners.

‘You know, boys, we are presently eating one of the world’s most intelligent animals, beside man.’ he remarked.

‘They’re clever, are they?’ said John.

‘Cleverer than you.’ said Arthur.

‘I’m sure you taste much better, though, John.’ said Dutch.

Dutch’s tone felt simultaneously light and crushing; a pound of lead and a pound of feathers. He looked at Arthur. Arthur looked at the fire, the orange light casting his pale eyes blue-gold. Arthur looked up and across at John, catching a glimpse of a frown through the flames.

***

John made his bedroll first, turning in early and falling asleep in minutes.

 _Sleeps like the baby he is,_ thought Arthur. _Dutch’s precious little boy--_

He shook his head, derailing his train of thought. Sat by the fire, he fetched his journal and charcoals from his satchel. He doodled a little to warm up, then set about rendering the crowded tree he had seen earlier, the mass of feathers and beaks and branches.

‘What’re you drawing there?’

Dutch’s voice came sudden from behind him, startling Arthur. Reflexively, he slammed his journal shut around his drawing hand.

‘It ain’t nothin.’

‘Let me see.’

Arthur hesitated.

‘You shouldn’t hide anything from me, son, especially not your gifts. They ought to be shared.’

‘I suppose,’ Arthur hummed.

‘Then what are you afraid of? You think me so cruel as to mock you about something like this?’

‘No, Dutch, I know you’d never.’

‘Give us a look, then.’ 

‘Alright.’

Dutch reached over Arthur’s shoulder to open his journal. His chest pressed against Arthur’s back and his breath washed warm over his neck. Arthur relented, slouching towards the contact. Dutch traced the form of the rendered tree, ringed fingers hovering above the page.

‘My, son, this is coming along spectacular. It’s a marvel that you can create such minute and pretty things with such… robust hands.’ said Dutch.

Arthur hummed, quiet and strained. Dutch turned his attention to the sketches.

‘And what are these?’

He touched the page beside, which Arthur had filled with sketches. A raven and a vulture and a face.  

‘They ain’t nothin’. Just little warm-ups.’

‘Don’t say that. Is this one here me?’

Arthur examined the sketch Dutch pointed to. It absolutely was him, right down to the beauty mark beneath the eye.

‘It weren’t supposed to be, but I guess it kinda came out that way, yeah.’

‘My, my. Even when you ain’t trying, you can really capture a likeness.’

‘Thank you, Dutch.’

‘Hosea taught you so well.’ said Dutch, voice wistful and far away.

Dutch placed his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, rubbed his thumbs against a forming knot at the base of his neck. Arthur melted into the touch, stifling the hint of a moan.

‘Can I have that page?’ asked Dutch.

Arthur hesitated. He hated to tear from his journal.

‘Sure.’ he said.

The sound of ripping paper made him wince. He handed the frayed page over his shoulder to Dutch.

‘Thank you kindly.’

‘Ain’t a problem.’

Dutch stood still for a while, one hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur sat in stasis, breath held, knuckles white with his grip on his journal. Then, with a sigh, Dutch ruffled Arthur’s hair. The gesture was fond, filling Arthur with warmth, taking him back to times both simpler and more complex. Dutch lingered, playing with the locks at the nape of Arthur’s neck, twisting them around his fingers.

‘This mop is getting quite long, Arthur.’                                                                      

‘Ah, yeah, needs a cut.’

‘You think so? I think it’s quite becoming.’

Arthur hummed, savouring the sensation, longing for Dutch to grip tighter and pull.

‘Anyway, I’m turning in. Don’t stay up too late, now.’

‘I don’t need to be told, Dutch.’ said Arthur, with a smile.

‘I ain’t so sure about that.’

Something in Dutch’s tone made Arthur’s face fall.

‘Goodnight, son.’

‘Goodnight, Dutch.’

Arthur sat a while, finishing his sketch. It ended up an odd drawing, by his own will or that of his hands, he could not discern. The tree’s form curled non-Nuclidean across the page, the birds a feathery mass on its branches, the carrion rendered grotesquely at the base of the trunk, guts spilled. He stared at his work a while, disturbed. He closed his journal and realised he was yet to set up his bed.

John was asleep on the ground across the fire from him. Dutch had pitched his tent close to John. They usually all slept within a few metres of each other, near enough to hear their breathing. Arthur grabbed his bedroll from Bo and stood by the fire, looking across the flames at the men who lay opposite. He watched John a while, his chest rising and falling in a soothing rhythm. 

Arthur turned and walked away. He made his bed barely close enough for the orange glow of the fire to catch him. He lay in his bedroll for some time, staring up at the stars scattered above, searching them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been a while but im finally updating this yeehaw! this chapter is named after a line in [alpha sun hat by the mountain goats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6XLSSAw71c). that song is such a Vibe for rdr2 ooft

**Author's Note:**

> this is unbeta'd and the first thing i've written in years oof but thanks for reading!
> 
> also, i was inspired to write this by [kriegersan's fic sundown on the silver cage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16822966/chapters/39489289).
> 
> bc im a pretentious ass, this fic is named after [this grizzly bear song (by the same name)](https://vimeo.com/99981614).
> 
> (edit: PS. will become explicit eventually, ie in chapter 4)


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